All Of Me
by SHERlockedFangirl
Summary: "Listen, has he ever had any kind of girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?" "I don't know." "How can we not know?" "He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?" John notices one of Sherlock's oddities, but he just can't put his finger on why it bothers him so much. And then Sherlock leaves his wedding early.


John had grown used to Sherlock's oddities, but there was one particular habit that made John feel uneasy, and John couldn't put his finger on why. It was probably because he simply didn't know the reason behind it. He knew about everything else. The violin at God awful hours of the morning? It was because it helped him think. Not speaking for days on end? That was Sherlock delving into the depths of his mind palace. Peculiar and often dangerous experiments on the kitchen table? It was Sherlock's childish love and obsession with science and expanding his knowledge that prompted him to continue with this. But this particular oddity? John just didn't know.

John had noticed that once a month Sherlock would leave the flat for an entire day with no explanation. The first Sunday of every month. He'd asked, of course, but to no avail. Sherlock was a naturally secretive person, but even this is beyond his normal levels of secrecy. Whenever Sherlock returned from this day of solitude, he seemed very closed off and would neither speak to John, nor acknowledge his presence in any way.

John had tried to follow him one day. As soon as Sherlock put his his great grey coat and his navy blue scarf was wrapped snugly around his neck, John had reached for his own coat. But as he'd tried to walk out of the door, Sherlock had simply turned to John and stared at him, brows furrowed, as if he was confused as to why John was trying to follow him. John didn't even try to push the issue further, and allowed Sherlock to leave. Of course he was curious. But even though Sherlock had a problem respecting John's privacy, John prided himself on his respect for other people's boundaries.

So he left Sherlock to himself on the first Sunday of each month. John was quite content to not say anything.

After Sherlock had returned from pretending to be dead for two years - the absolute dickhead - John thought he would have kicked his habit. But Sherlock had continued his ritual as if no time had passed whatsoever.

Instead of waiting around for Sherlock to return as he had done before, John chose to spend that time with Mary.

Sherlock had always seemed a little reserved around Mary. John was sure it was just Sherlock disliking the change that had occurred during his time away. John had moved on, and Sherlock needed to accept this. He was never rude to Mary, which was a relief. John knew how cutting Sherlock could be with his deductions about people, but he seemed to hold back anything he was reading from her.

Still Sherlock continued to disappear on the first Sunday of every month.

John's curiosity peaked. He had known Sherlock for close to five years (even though two of those years John had spent convinced that his best friend had been dead), and in that whole time John had never cracked the mystery of where Sherlock went on his Sunday adventures. He approached Mrs Hudson, and asked whether she knew anything about the strange habit of Sherlock's.

"I don't know, John dear. I've never wanted to ask because... well... it's Sherlock. I'm sure that whatever it is, it's very important to him."

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. But why wouldn't he tell us if it was something important?"

Mrs Hudson had leaned over her kitchen table to rest a hand on John's arm. "It's best to let it be, John. If Sherlock isn't telling us, then it's probably with good reason."

Next, John had approached Greg, who had known Sherlock longer than he had, although maybe not better. But it still didn't give him any insight into this odd behavior.

"No bloody idea, mate," he'd said over his pint. John liked to join Greg for a pint every so often. Mary encouraged the behavior, telling him that it was unhealthy to spend all of his time with the same two people.

"I just want to make sure he's okay. I mean, for all we know he could be shooting up behind our backs." Greg shot him a panicked look. "No, Greg, I'm not saying he is. You forget that I'm a doctor, I've been keeping an eye out for the signs of a relapse. He's clean, I'm sure. I'm just saying, if he were, we wouldn't know."

"Jesus, you're that worried about him?"

John let out a humourless laugh. "I'm always bloody worried, Greg. Ever since he came back I've been worried."

Greg had drained the last of his pint before clapping John once on the shoulder, it was probably supposed to be reassuring. It wasn't. Greg left him there.

Then, John did something he'd really not wanted to do. He went to Mycroft.

"John, do you not think that if my brother wanted to disclose this information to you that you would have already told you?"

"You know where Sherlock goes?"

Mycroft had just looked at him, as if to say, r_eally, John? You're going to question my knowledge?_

John left then, he couldn't put up with Mycroft for an extended period of time, especially if he's skirting the issue and being mysterious.

So John dropped the subject and focused on an even more pressing issue. His wedding.

Sherlock threw himself into the wedding plans, playing the part of the best man with passion and enthusiasm. Well, as much passion and enthusiasm that Sherlock could put into something that isn't a case. But despite his efforts, Sherlock seemed distant, like it wasn't actually himhelping John to plan his wedding. Like he was just a shell that had been running on auto pilot. But he never worked on the first Sunday of the month. Never. He continued to vanish and return to the living world late into the evening. The next day, Sherlock would be back to normal.

Thanks to all of their combined efforts, the day went surprisingly well - despite the attempted murder. Mary had looked absolutely beautiful in her dress, John had a very hard time keeping his eyes off of her. He had never been prouder. Sherlock's speech was actually very good, despite everyone's predictions. He was funny, charming, and even sweet in places. And he had managed to solve a murder at the same time. Once again, John was amazed at his best friend's capabilities. Now, John had a wife, and a baby on the way. A baby. He was going to be a father. John couldn't quite wrap his head around it. It was a truly perfect day.

And then Sherlock left early.

John visited Sherlock the following morning at 221B before his flight to Antigua for his honeymoon. Sherlock was in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown.

"Why did you leave the wedding early?" John stood with his arms crossed over his chest and stood there. He was not leaving without an answer.

"Does it really matter, John?" Sherlock turned away, refusing to look at John.

"Yes, Sherlock. Why did you leave the wedding - my wedding - early?" John raised his voice. He was furious with Sherlock.

Sherlock turned very slowly towards John, and John was horrified to see tears shining in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's arms wrapped around his own waist, and his eyes moved to the floor, still refusing to meet John's.

"Because it reminded me too much of my own."

"Your... Your own?"

The tears had already begun to fall down the detective's cheeks.

"Please leave, John. You have a wife and baby waiting for you to whisk them away to Antigua."

"Sherlock..."

"Go. You're going to be late."

Sherlock physically pushed John out of the door and closed it in his face. Still feeling struck dumb, John descended the stairs and left for his honeymoon.

Two weeks away did not cause John to forget what he'd heard. He had definitely heard Sherlock tell him that his wedding had reminded Sherlock of his own. Sherlock's own wedding.

If the prospect of being a father was difficult for John to accept, then this was completely beyond him.

He didn't go to see Sherlock when he returned. He didn't know what to say to the man. He would have continued to avoid Baker Street if it weren't for Mycroft, who had turned up at his and Mary's home unexpectedly one morning.

"Talk to him," was all he had said to him, and then escorted John personally to Baker Street.

When he entered 221B, Sherlock was curled up in a tight ball on the sofa, surrounded by photographs. His eyes were red from the tears he was still shedding. He wasn't just crying, he was silently sobbing, his chest was heaving as he was trying to breathe, but he obviously couldn't control his tears.

John said nothing, he just sat himself down on the opposite end of the sofa, picking up some of the photographs so he didn't damage any of them as he sat down. His eyes scanned the pictures in his hands. One was of Sherlock and a woman John didn't know sitting very lose together at table of a quaint looking restaurant. The girl and Sherlock's faces were pressed together. She was incredibly pretty. Her eyes were a sparkling emerald colour that shone out of her face. Her skin was pale and covered with freckles, framed by her long, sleek, slightly wavy, dark brown hair. They both looked incredibly young, no more than their early twenties. Sherlock's hair was slightly longer, but just as dark, and just as curly. Most importantly in this photograph, is that Sherlock looked the happiest John had ever seen him.

That was until John looked at the two other photos in his hands. Wedding photos.

In the first photo Sherlock was dressed in a suit, not unlike the one he wore to John's wedding. His hair was the same as ever, thick, dark curls. He was with a man John didn't recognise, dressed in a matching suit, hair slicked back. They were stood outside of a church, with obvious expressions of excitement on their faces. John had only ever seen that expression of intense excitement when he was working on an especially interesting case. But the last picture was truly breathtaking.

It was Sherlock, again, but he wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking down at the woman in his arms, the same woman from the first photo. His arms were wrapped around her waist, and her hands rested on top of his, showing the matching bands on their left hands. The woman's hair was up, a small flower nestled into her curls. Her dress was cut off at the knee, a classic fifties style, all lace and flared out skirt. The lace spread from the dress to her shoulders, running down her arms in full length sleeves. It suited her. It suited him. They looked like a beautiful couple.

So what happened?

"Her name was Victoria," a small, quiet voice began from the other side of the sofa. "We were at uni together, both chemistry graduates. She wasperfect, John. Absolutely perfect. She was funny, polite, sophisticated and intelligent. God, John. Her mind was amazing. And my parents approved, even Mycroft approved of her. We were together for three years before we got engaged. We married very shortly afterwards. I've never seen anyone so beautiful as she was on our wedding day. Everything was perfect. Our marriage was perfect. We kept each other intellectually stimulated and we enjoyed each other's company. I was happy, John. Completely and utterly happy, and I was so in love. Our life was absolutely fantastic. I came home one day and she was waiting for me with the most amazing news. She was pregnant. I was going to be a dad. Our lives had everything, friends and now a family of our own. But one night, she didn't come home. I stayed up all night, worrying, waiting. I got the phone call at 3am. Her taxi had been hit by an intoxicated driver. She'd died on impact, and so had the baby. My wife and my baby, John, all in one night. My whole life had collapsed. I had nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Sherlock began to sob again, and John couldn't just sit there and watch him. He shuffled over to the lanky detective and wrapped his arms around the sobbing figure of his best friend. Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around his back and fisted his hands into the back of John's jacket. It was desperate, and John wasn't going to deny Sherlock comfort in his hour of need. He stroked Sherlock's back, trying to soothe him.

"Sherlock, it's okay."

Sherlock tried to speak through his sobs, but John was still able to make out what he was saying.

"No, John. It's not. That's why I got into drugs. I wanted to forget, I wanted the pain to end."

John's heart hurt. His gut twisted at the noises coming from his friend, from what he was saying. John had always wondered why Sherlock had turned to drugs. Sherlock had always insinuated that it was to dull his mind and streamline his thoughts. The truth was even worse than the lies.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to pretend to understand what you've been through, but I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry's not going to bring Victoria back, John."

"I know. I know."

Sherlock continued to sob into John's shoulder. He had never seen the detective so broken. He and Mrs Hudson had assumed that Sherlock had never had to cope with loss after the apparent death of Irene Adler. But Sherlock had suffered loss, one of the worst losses that John had ever heard about. He hoped that he would never have to experience that, and was sorry that Sherlock ever had to.

"It still hurts, John. Organising your wedding, attending your wedding, it bought it all back."

"Jesus, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

"Caring is not an advantage."

Something clicked into place into John's mind.

"That's why you shut people out. You're scared of getting close to them only to lose them."

Sherlock ignored that comment.

"I miss her John. I miss her so much."

John stayed with Sherlock until he had exhausted himself with his emotional outburst. And even afterwards, not wanting to leave his friend's side. He tucked Sherlock into bed and made sure the detective was fully asleep before turning off the lights ad laving him to rest. He phoned Mary and explained the situation in full. It had been difficult to talk about, considering how closely it resembled their own lives, and his voice caught more than a few times. Even Mary was shocked, and there wasn't much that could shock her - if her reaction to Sherlock's return was anything to go by.

After promising to phone her in the morning, John sat in his old, familiar armchair in the living room to reflect on what Sherlock had just revealed to him. Sherlock had been married. He'd had a wife, a home and a baby on the way, and in the space of one evening it had all been taken from him. Every chance of happiness he had was viciously stolen from him through another man's stupidity.

He could see how much Victoria's death affected Sherlock, even now. He was obviously heartbroken. John could visualise the moment when Sherlock's life had shattered, the moment when he'd received the phone call and his eyes, once so full of light and happiness just became empty, and had remained so for a good many years.

Christ, no wonder the man turned to drugs. They were incredibly lucky that Sherlock was even alive. John had seen a tiny glimpse of the pain that Sherlock had experienced, and it had been enough to drive a man mad. In his position, John didn't know what he would have done, and he hoped that he would never have to find out. The thought of losing Mary, of losing their baby, it was too much, and prompted another phone call to his wife to remind of how much he loved her, loved them both.

It also explained Sherlock's aversion to relationships, and his disregard of Molly was suddenly understandable. Not only was Sherlock simply not interested in dating, but he'd feel like he was betraying his late wife he did so. It was all falling into place, and John wondered why he hadn't seen sooner.

The following morning bought about the first Sunday of the month. Sherlock rose, and donned his coat and scarf. This time though, instead of just waltzing out of the flat, he collected John's jacket, which was still on the sofa from last night - for John had slept there, wanting to still be close to Sherlock in case of another round of hysterical sobbing, but not too close so that the consulting detective felt over crowded. He held John's jacket out to him. John took it from his hands, put it on and followed Sherlock out of the flat. A car - a sleek, black, expensive looking model, and therefore obviously Mycroft's - was waiting for them just outside of the door, hovering idly at the curb whilst Sherlock took a moment to collect himself before entering.

John shuffled in awkwardly behind him. Whereas Sherlock was obviously well practiced at this, John had very rarely been picked up by one of Mycroft's cars - with the exception of the occasional kidnapping - and had less elegance and poise as he entered the vehicle.

They sat in silence together as the car pulled away and began their journey to wherever it was that Sherlock disappeared to on these Sundays. Considering what happened the previous evening, John had an uneasy feeling that it had something to do with his deceased wife.

_God, Sherlock's a widower._

John had never considered that, and it was a terrifying thought. Sherlock was only 37 years old, and a widow. That was harsh, and finally explained Sherlock's defences when he was approached by women.

After about thirty minutes of silence, each man wrapped up in their own thoughts, the car pulled up again. Only Sherlock got out of the car. John was waiting to be summoned, but Sherlock returned five minutes later. He carried with him a beautiful bouquet of flowers. It looked very similar to a wedding arrangement. It was made up of rustic pink roses, with sprigs of gypsophila and ivy leaves.

"It's an exact replica of her wedding bouquet." Sherlock had always possessed an uncanny ability to read John's mind, and once again he was completely right. "I have a new one made every month."

John now had a very good idea about where the were heading.

Soon, they were surrounded by trees, and Sherlock was once again exiting the car. This time, he held the door open for John, who cautiously followed him. In his pocket, John's phone began to ring. It was Mary. John pressed 'reject call'. Now was not the time. Sherlock wanted to show John something that obviously meant a lot to him, and John wanted it to be just them. He would probably argue with Mary about it later, especially given their discussion last night, but he didn't care at this precise moment. After John was out of the car, Sherlock closed the door and walked away, flowers still nestled in the crook of his arm. John followed without question.

They reached a beautiful grassy glade, surrounded by a boarder of oak and sycamore trees. It was still on the brink of summer, so everything was green and luscious. It looked absolutely beautiful.

And then John saw them. The beautiful, smooth white stones protruding from the grass.

Sherlock weaved his way between the gravestones, before stopping short at one. John moved to stand beside Sherlock, not touching, but lose enough to provide comfort to the taller, curly haired man. The stone was made of white marble, like all of the others, and engraved.

Victoria Grace Holmes. Taken too soon, but never forgotten.

Sherlock bent down to carefully place the flowers at the foot of the white marble. As he stood back up to rejoin John, Sherlock was wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"Sorry. I'm used to being here alone, where no-one can see this, or judge me."

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's completely understandable."

One again, they stood in silence, side by side. John didn't want to break the delicate silence between them.

"It's how I got into solving crimes."

Sherlock's voice was so quiet that John had to turn to him to hear him properly. He wished he hadn't. He had never seen Sherlock in so much pain. He looked completely heartbroken.

"I wanted to find the man who killed her, killed my beautiful Victoria. I worked tirelessly, examining all of the evidence. My deduction skills were already well developed, but then it had a purpose. I solved it in two days and he was arrested. Mycroft made sure he got a life sentence. It didn't feel good, John, because at the end of the day Victoria was still dead, and so was our child. And nothing I could do could bring them back. But it bought a minuscule amount of satisfaction from him being punished for his actions. So I started to take clients, to help others who had gone through the same thing. That's why I stay detached from cases, John. If I get too emotionally involved, it reminds me too much of her. And the Yarders don't know, and I couldn't bare them to know, because I don't want their pity."

John, sensing that Sherlock needed to be alone, made a silent exit form the site of the grave. He didn't go too far, far enough for Sherlock to have his privacy, but not so far that Sherlock was out of his eye sight.

For a while, Sherlock just stood there staring at the gravestone, obviously trying to hold back his tears. But then Sherlock did something that completely broke John's heart. He knelt down in front of the grave, leaned forwards and pressed his lips to the head of the stone.

They left very shortly afterwards. Sherlock went home to Baker Street, and John went back to Mary at their home. As soon as John had walked through the door, Mary had turned to him, obviously looking for an argument. However, the moment she'd seen the look on his face, the fight drained out of her. They ended up on the sofa together, Mary with her arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders as he completely broke down. Seeing Sherlock in such in such a state seemed to not only have emotionally drained John, but also feel intense amounts of pain and sadness himself. He felt Sherlock's loss, had experienced it first hand, and Sherlock, who had always seemed so strong, had completely broken down.

And that is what broke John.

He wrapped his arms around Mary, holding onto her as tightly as she was holding him. He vowed, just as Sherlock had done - God, his vow, it meant so much more now that John understood why he had made it - to protect Mary and their child with everything he had. How would take are of them always, and allow no harm to ever come to them.

John knew that if he and Sherlock worked together, then at least one of them stood a chance of happiness in the future.

One of them would have a family, but two of them would fight for it.


End file.
